-"Now stay exactly where you are, don't move!"
John looked up at Sherlock, on the rooftop, from the sidewalk where he was standing, the phone pressed to his ear, his eyes wide opened with fear. He nodded once.
"Alright..." He agreed, trying to sound sort of soothing.
-"Keep your eyes fixed on me, please, would you do this for me?" John shook his head slowly in disbelief, hearing the emotion in Sherlock's voice which was almost breaking at each word. Emotion… he rarely had the occasion to hear or see any in the man.
- "Do what?" His eyes were set on his flatmate's when Sherlock went on: "This phone call...you know, it's my note...it's what people do, don't they? Leave a note..."
-"Leave a note when?" John asked, feeling so confused, while Sherlock just answered in a quiet voice "Good bye John..." before extending his arms on each side of his body, throwing his phone away in the process, looking straight ahead. John was frozen "No...Don't..." he managed to mumble before helplessly watching Sherlock taking a step in the void: "Sheeeeerlock !?".
He woke up, panting, his body covered in a cold sweat and reached for his face with both his hands, drying the tears that came to his eyes as they always did, night after night, with the same nightmare which kept coming back to haunt him. He ran them through his hair, keeping his eyes shut tight and his teeth clenched. "That can't go on like this" he said to himself, getting up and heading to the bathroom. He took a clean towel on which he puts some cold water before wiping his face, then his bare chest with it. He sighed when he looked at his dreadful face and left the wet clothe into the sink, exiting the bathroom to go downstairs with heavy steps. It was four a.m.
He turned on his laptop and while the machine was getting started he bent his steps towards the kitchen to pour himself some water which he drowned in one long gulp. He ran his hand once more through his hair, looking at the living-room without even realizing that he was staring at the coach where Sherlock used to spend most of his time rummaging his thoughts. What was he even thinking about? John never actually knew... Sherlock was so secretive... probably not on purpose though, but people being so easily read and seen through by him, he surely thought that he was as easy to be read too, and therefore there was no use sharing his thoughts…pure lost of time…
John sighed again and tore his eyes off from the coach to cross the living-room, to sit in front of his laptop, placed on the desk. His blog's homepage appeared on to the screen after a few seconds and he absentmindedly typed his login and password.
With Sherlock's death, he almost deactivated it, seeing no point in keeping it... but right before hitting the button, he changed his mind and decided to keep it. He decided to make it private instead of keeping it as a public blog. He knew that he needed to exorcise...but didn't want to go back to the shrink, and certainly didn't want people reading his most hidden reflections.
Of course Sherlock's death wasn't the first one he witnessed, but it stroke him more deeply and vividly than any other. Sherlock... the rooftop... the feeling of helplessness when he was falling down in slow motion, as if the time itself was shocked by what was happening and then...the emptiness... the deepest emptiness imaginable when realization hit that Sherlock was gone... gone for good... Sherlock... his best friend...his… He hits the "new entry" button and his fingers started to fly over the keyboard:
"Here I am... I've had a nightmare... again... the same bloody nightmare I've been having every single night since you've left. I don't know how to keep going Sherlock... I just don't know how to cope... I'm scared, every night I'm scared to go to bed because I know that I'll live that moment again... and Sherlock, I don't want to... Why...? Just why did you have to do that? Why did you have to leave...me?"
He choked on the last words and felt the tears threatening to come back again. He clenched both his teeth and fists, swallowing them back before exhaling loudly while pushing "ENTER".
There... One more post on his blog... one more post that nobody will read... It was to Sherlock that John wanted to talk to, it was Sherlock to whom he wanted to ask the questions that were burning his mind and memory... But Sherlock wasn't here... and would never be anymore...
He got up and went to the couch on which he let himself fall, curling into a ball and slowly drifted back into sleep, soothed by Sherlock's scent still caught by the clothe of the old piece of furniture.